


The Making (and Unmaking) of Oliver Queen

by sprayadhesive



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Felicity sees through the facade, Gen, Getting home to Starling City, Oliver immediately after the island, What happened for 5 days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:40:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprayadhesive/pseuds/sprayadhesive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 days to rebuild himself as Oliver Queen after he leaves the island (and 1 to knock him off his feet).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: On the Boat

**Author's Note:**

> I've become a little bit (ok, completely) transfixed by the 5 days between when Oliver gets rescued from the island and when he appears in Starling City. This is my attempt at that time and his journey to regain control and become Oliver Queen again. 
> 
> And, of course, there's the one day that it takes Oliver to realize that he can't control everything (and that not everyone is fooled by his persona).

Oliver couldn’t relax because he was pretty sure that he had forgotten how to relax. He was rigid, squeezing his hands into fists, and his fingernails dug into his palms. It was a habit that he had picked up while he was on the island.

Anything to cope. Anything to survive.

That island - the one that was slowly slipping further and further away. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of it, even though he knew that he should be assessing the boat - its layout, its contents, its two occupants - for any sign of danger. He should have been looking for the closest available weapon to him (besides the bow, quiver, and arrows that rested in the cloth at his feet), further assessing the weak points of the two fishermen (just in case), and scanning the boat for a life raft (again, just in case). But he couldn’t do that because he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of the island.

He’d changed irreparably there. He’d killed with bare hands, killed with weapons that he had never dreamed of, and become a warped version of himself. No matter how far away he got from it, he wasn’t sure if he would ever really leave it.

But in order to fulfill his father’s dying wish, in order to atone for his own sins, Oliver would have to lie and bury them. He alone could know about what had happened and the way that it had changed him.

To move on and save his city, he would need to lie so convincingly that he would start to believe it himself.

It was only after it disappears beyond the horizon that he released the breath that he had been holding. But he couldn’t relax his hands. Because he had been on a boat sailing away from that island before and he had been adrift at sea for weeks, and he knew how fast the tide could change.

He pulled the damp, dingy blanket that the fishermen provided him tighter around his shoulders. It provided him a layer of comfort, no matter how small it may be, that he had not been afforded for the last few years. It was cold out at sea, and the fishermen had given him the blanket because they expected him to be cold, too. Both of the fishermen had on multiple layers of clothing. Oliver was hyper-conscious of the fact that he was wearing the tattered rags of what remained of an outfit that he had first put on more than a year ago and Yao Fei’s hood. But he had grown used to the cold, so much so that he wouldn’t have even shivered without the blanket.

Shivering was a weakness that he couldn’t afford to show.

The empty tea mug in his hands was growing cold. The younger of the two fishermen had offered it to him a few minutes ago, wordlessly. Oliver and the two still hadn’t spoken to each other. It had been a lot of gesturing and unspoken agreements. They assumed that he didn’t speak their language, but the Mandarin that he heard came as a welcome sound. It was going to be easier to get back to Starling City than he had thought.

He stood from where he had been leaning against a fishing crate. His feet, however calloused and hardened they may be, were sore and cracked from the sprint up the rocky cliff face to the flint arrows that he had used to signal the boat. The floorboards of the boat beneath his feet were the smoothest material he’d felt beneath him in years.

Approaching cautiously, he made his footfalls heavier than they normally would be so that the two fishermen could hear him coming as he entered the cabin.

Don’t take anyone by surprise. Unnecessary risk.

“Thank you,” he said in Mandarin. They turned to him in surprise, but, thankfully, they don’t ask for an explanation. The words are only the second time he has spoken in about a year. His voice is gruff, and he’s still relearning how to interact with humans.

Interacting with people in Starling City under the guise of a playboy billionaire would be a whole other preparation.

“We should be back at port in about two hours,” the older man responded.

“We’re heading to Yantai,” the son added. He watched Oliver strangely, but Oliver knew that he must be a strange sight. Not that he would know - he hadn’t looked in a proper mirror in years. “It will take us a few hours to unload and sell our catch today. We’ll take you to our house for the night, and then we can take you where you need to go in the morning.”

Their kindness was still so foreign to him. Oliver was still on edge, because they could still be a trap or a trick. It was daunting to believe that he could honestly be 12 hours away from being Oliver Queen again. 12 hours from home.

He nodded his thanks and placed the cup down on the small table in the cabin.

“How long were you on that island?” The son asked. His father shot him a dirty look, but he and Oliver both pretended to not have seen it.

“What day is today?” He responded, because he honestly didn’t know. From seasons, Oliver had an approximate of how long it’s been.

“October 6,” the fisher responded. He looked at the length of Oliver’s hair and beard and then added, “2012.”

“Five years,” Oliver responded lowly. “Five years and five days.”

The man was stunned into silence, and Oliver was selfishly glad because he knew how many questions he would be answering for the next few days. Or weeks. Months? Hopefully not years.

Oliver’s breath caught in his chest. Five years meant that he was old.

The realization hit him suddenly. He was not old, really, but he was much older than he had stopped to consider. Even with the passing time, he had deluded himself into thinking that his age had reached something of an arrested development. He hadn’t celebrated birthdays on the island. There was no way, and even if there had been, there had been too much danger for a celebration.

But he couldn’t be 22 forever. He was 27 now. He had to stifle a laugh. When he first washed up on the island, he doubted that he would ever make it to 23. He was older than he ever thought that he would be.

He was old enough that he should have a stable job. People he grew up with would have finished college, started careers, gotten married. He froze again when he realized a lot of them would even have families. Would Tommy? Would Laurel? Starling City would have moved on without him. And he would be coming back in virtually the same position that he had left it, with a skillset that no one could ever find out about.

Suddenly, the smell of fish overwhelmed him and his stomach growled grotesquely. His last full meal was two days ago.

The older man’s eyes flicked to Oliver when he heard the growling, and he left the steering wheel to go to the back of the cabin. He brought back a small, metal box and passed it to him. He grunted, “Eat.”

Oliver opened it hesitantly. There were six dumplings inside, still warm from when they were cooked. His stomach grumbled again and he looked to him, still hesitant to eat.

“We’ll be back in two hours. I won’t starve.”

Oliver registered how even things such as the fishermen’s certainty of a result were foreign to him. They took the future for granted in ways that he could no longer afford. Still, he knew that he was going to eat the dumplings. His growling stomach wouldn’t allow him to do anything else. He tore into them with his fingers, ignoring the chopsticks that were at the bottom of the box. The food was warm, and he couldn’t remember the last time that he ate a carb. The dumplings melted in his mouth with every bite. It was an insane feeling, almost overwhelming, and he was starting to get giddy from the experience. They were too good, too warm, too welcome, and he never thought he would taste anything like it ever again.

He was embarrassed when he looked up thirty seconds later, the dumplings already completely gone. Both of the men were pointedly looking away from him, trying not to make him feel more uncomfortable than he already did in that moment. They seemed like they wanted to understand his actions, but how could they? How could anyone understand how amazing hot, warm dough and meat would feel in your stomach after five years of missed, unsatisfying, hurried, raw or burnt meals?

They were the best thing that he had eaten in 1,830 days. Delicious, incredible, amazing, and… too overwhelming. He needed to throw up.

His stomach clenched. He ran out of the cabin and barely make it to the side of the boat before the entirety of the contents of his stomach were floating next to them in the water.

Weakness.

A hand clasped his shoulder, and he jerked away, his hand grabbing for the wrist that held him and his other hand clenched into a fist. He almost swung it into the assailant when he registered that the touch was friendly, gentle, and that it belonged to the older of the two fishermen.

He looked at Oliver with a mixture shock and fear. Oliver lowered his fist guiltily, releasing him.

He took a step back from Oliver. Oliver shook his head almost imperceptibly, a gesture to more to remind himself than for the benefit of the other man. He had to reign in the dark wildness inside of him. It had grown uncontrollably on the island, and he had to figure out a way to restrain it.

“You need to eat slowly. Your stomach isn’t used to certain foods anymore. Wait a few more minutes and then try some fish. Anything you want.”

Oliver nodded and turned away from him, clenching his fists and looking out at the ocean. He couldn’t even eat like he was used to. The next week or two were going to be mental warfare. He thought that he had prepared himself for it while he was on the island. But, he hadn’t anticipated exactly how hard it would be. He wasn’t sure that he had a grasp on it even now. Still, he needed to try.

Thirty minutes later, he took a fresh, raw fish from off the top of one of the crates and bit into it greedily. It was raw, cold, and exactly what he was used to. It wasn’t as good as the dumplings, but it was everything that he needed right then and probably all he could stomach.

\----

Solid ground, away from the island. Mainland China. If he had to, Oliver could travel by foot and reach Russia, India, Europe… He was still an ocean away from home, but he wouldn’t be cut off from the resources that he needed to get to Starling City ever again. Not if he had anything to say about it.

The house they were in was small, much smaller than he had expected, and it housed three generations. The family was excited to see him. He was a novelty, he knew. As hard as he tried to be gracious, he realized by their reactions to him that his exterior was projecting something entirely different. His presence was chilling to them, and he was more intimidating than he had intended to be. He would need to soften for his family.

The family had offered Oliver no shortage of food. He could tell that they were over-extending themselves with their generosity, but he remembered what had happened on the boat and regretfully declined it all, save a few small bowls of broth. He needed to readjust to food, and he didn’t want his weakness to show in front of the whole family.

Oliver excused himself for the restroom.

He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before looking into the mirror. When he opened them, a stranger looked back at him. He was… hairier than he had thought. His eyes were wild. He looked dangerous.

The clean, prim, designer boy that once was had disappeared. The hair would have to go. And the beard. How would he be able to bridge that gap and become the person that his family (and the city) expected?

Tomorrow, he would have to try. Tomorrow, he would go to the embassy in Beijing and step into his mantle as Oliver Queen.

As he climbed into the small, spare bed in the shared living space, he clutched an arrow to his chest. Just in case.


	2. Day Two: The Embassy

He had taken the first train to Beijing that was available, and it had been a longer ride than he would have liked. The speed of the train had turned his stomach for the first few minutes, and he had been too worried about his stomach’s limitations to eat anything that the train offered. He’d settled for a weak tea instead. He’d gone longer without food, and he knew his body well enough to know that it wouldn’t affect his mood for another day.

He had taken a large canvas bag filled with his few possessions - his father’s book, the hosen, the green hood, the arrows, bow, quiver, and other seemingly insignificant items from the island. He had left his arm guard as a present for one of the boys in the family because he had become fascinated by it. He also had packed a piece of paper with the family’s contact information because he had sworn to himself in his straw bed the night before that he would never forget their kindness. It was the first that he had been shown in years. He would repay them for all that they had done for him - from the money for the train ticket to the threadbare clothes and well-worn shoes that he now wore. They had so little yet had given him so much.

He hadn’t, however, bathed and was still caked in dirt, so he wasn’t surprised by the number of stares that he received when he finally pushed his way into the embassy. 

His head swam for a moment and he took a deep, calming breath. Beijing had been more overwhelming than he had anticipated. Lights, people everywhere, and the overall rush of the city had been too much for him, even in the late afternoon. He was glad to escape it.

A man approached him hesitantly, “Can I help you?”

Oliver noticed that the man was standing a foot or two further than would normally be considered socially acceptable. He must smell atrocious. Or look dangerous. Probably both. His tightened his grip on the canvas bag slung across his back.

“I seem to have lost my passport,” he smiled tightly. It had taken every ounce of effort for him to smile. He wasn’t used to pleasantries. He needed to work on his approach.

“And you’re a US national?” The man frowned, taking a moment to look Oliver up and down.

“Yes,” his smile dropped from his face. He had forgotten how much appearances meant off the island. Once again, he recognized that his was lacking. He hardly looked the part of Oliver Queen.

“Let me bring you to Mr. Smith’s office. He handles these sorts of… cases… usually.”

Oliver didn’t like the tone that the man was using. He set his jaw and clenched his fists, swallowed the impulse to threaten him into getting what he needed, and followed the man down a maze of hallways. Right, left, left, right again, second door on the left. Oliver committed the path to memory. The room that he was shown was small, one desk in the middle with a computer (was that a computer? It was so much smaller than Oliver remembered them) on top of it. There were two hard, straight chairs on his side of the desk. Besides the door that he had just come from, a small window opposite was the only other exit. He was confident he would be able to fit through in case of an emergency. 

There was a nameplate on the desk with the name Stephen Shipley and, to Oliver’s bemusement, a Starling City Rockets paperweight.

“I’ll go and find Mr. Shipley,” the man said, and Oliver could tell that he was hesitant to leave him alone in the office.

He sat down in one of the chairs but positioned it so that he could see the door, the desk, and the window. 

Know your exits, know your attack points.

Five minutes later, a tall, pinched man in his forties with gray around his temples burst into the room. He had the air of someone in a frenzy, but when his eyes found Oliver, he stopped short. His face contorted into a deep frown before he said, in a slow, exaggerated voice, “How can I help you?”

Oliver’s frown returned, and he considered responding in Russian, just to be a nuisance, before he remembered that he really needed this man’s help. He clenched his fists and reclaimed his temper. Oliver tried to soften his voice, “I’ve misplaced my passport. And I need to get home.”

The man’s eyes widened in surprise when he heard Oliver’s accent. He moved forward and extended his hand to Oliver, “You’ve come to the right place. I’m Stephen Shipley. You can call me Steve.”

Oliver stared at the extended hand for a moment before remembering the almost-forgotten custom and stood, shaking his hand, “Oliver Queen.”

Steve’s hand tightened around his for a moment before he let go. The man looked at Oliver’s face and then, after a beat, broke into laughter. Full-fledged, outright laughter.

Oliver glared at him, his voice dropping an octave, “Is there a problem?”

The man stopped laughing abruptly, giving Oliver an apologetic look, but he still smiled at him. The look was oddly… irritating. He moved to his chair on the opposite side of the desk, “I’m sorry. I thought you said that you were Oliver Queen.”

Oliver shifted to face the man head on. His voice was dangerously low, the glare fixed on his face, “Yes. It was.”

The man responded slowly again, like he was speaking to someone who didn’t quite understand the concept, “Oliver Queen is dead. He died in a shipwreck five years ago. I’m from Starling City. I sat through weeks of coverage on the news. I think I would recognize him if he waltzed into my office.”

“I was never any good at the waltz. I didn’t have enough patience or interest in the lessons,” Oliver spoke calmly, his voice still low and dangerous. He knew that convincing the first stranger was going to be the hardest part - right after speaking to his family. “ And I can assure you that I’m not dead.”

Shipley crossed his arms and considered him for a moment. Oliver could see the exact moment when the man dismissed the idea entirely, “Oliver Queen is dead. While this has been entertaining, I have some things I need to finish up before the end of the day today. There’s a homeless shelter around the corner that you can spend the night in…”

Oliver squeezed his fists tightly, breathing deeply to calm himself once more. “Mr. Shipley, I am Oliver Queen. I know that you’re probably very busy, but I would make it worth your while to stay a few extra hours and help me get back home to Starling City.”

Not a full day off the island, and he was already bribing people to get his way. Slipping back into his old habits was alarmingly easy.

The man still wasn’t convinced, so Oliver added, “Wouldn’t you rather be the man that helped Oliver Queen get home than the asshole who didn’t believe him?”

Oliver knew that the mere hope of money was the only reason he wasn’t being escorted from the office. Shipley hedged, “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind helping me verify your identity then?”

“Go ahead,” Oliver absentmindedly took a pen from the desk and clutched it in his fist. He had become all too aware that his bow was far out of reach from its position in the bag. The pen would prove as a viable alternative for an arrow if he came under attack. 

He stilled. He wasn’t on the island anymore. He couldn’t fight his way out of undesirable situations. He was a billionaire socialite now. At least... he would be as soon as he proved his identity.

The man typed a few things into his computer. He cleared his throat to get Oliver’s attention, and Oliver looked up abruptly, his eyes narrowing. Shipley smiled lightly, but Oliver could see that his leg was jiggling underneath the desk. He was making him nervous. Good. Shipley started, “Can you tell me Oliver’s-- I mean, your birthday and social security number?”

Twenty minutes and endless questions later, Shipley was looking at Oliver like he had seen a ghost. His demeanor changed entirely, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “Well, you’re either Oliver Queen or a very good impersonator…”

“Mr. Shipley, if you’d like, I could call my family.” 

His stomach churned slightly. He hadn’t wanted it to come to this, but any other way would take longer than he was willing to wait. Now that he was back in civilization, he was anxious to get to Starling City. The visions he had of his friends and family were more vivid than they had been for years.

Shipley hesitated, but he eventually pushed the phone on his desk towards Oliver.

Oliver took it in his hands. He wanted, more than anything, to call Laurel, but now was not the time. He had to quench his desires for his needs. 

Right now, he needed Moira Queen. 

He plugged the number into the phone from memory. It was numbers like hers that he had repeated to himself constantly on the island, so that he could remind himself that his past life had been real. 

It was past 4pm in Beijing, meaning that it would be the middle of the night in Starling City, but Oliver was relying on a call coming through to his mother’s personal cell phone (of which only a handful of people knew) from an unrecognized number would ensure her answer. He also hoped beyond anything that her number hadn’t changed in five years.

He was relieved when it rang, but it went to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message, but he listened to the recording anyways, closing his eyes and soaking in his mother’s voice. His family deserved better than to find out he was alive from a voicemail.

Shipley watched him closely, and Oliver lifted his gaze in a challenge. He passed the phone back, and his hand tightened around the pen that he was holding. He was discouraged by the turn of events, and he realized that he had been more excited to talk to his mom than he had thought.

The man shifted uncomfortably, his eyes finding the pen that Oliver was clutching. He spoke gently, “If you’d like, I can come in early tomorrow morning so that we can give it another try. The time difference is brutal.”

Oliver nodded curtly.

Shipley shifted and continued, “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“No,” Oliver growled. What about stranded on an island for five years was this man not understanding?

Shipley seemed like he was having an internal debate. Finally, he said, “I can let you stay upstairs for the night. We keep a small apartment for political refugees, but I think--”

“Thank you,” Oliver cut him off. 

\----

The room that he had been shown was almost as small as Shipley’s office. There was a twin bed pushed up against the wall opposite the door. A small, rectangular window that was positioned high up on the wall over the bed was the only source of natural light. Oliver was reminded of a prison cell, but knew that the window was probably a security precaution. 

There was a door to his right that led to a bathroom. He placed his duffle bag on the bed and then moved to the bathroom. 

Once again, he studied his reflection in the mirror. He would need to lose the hair and the beard before he saw his family and before the story leaked to the press. And the story would leak. He was planning on leaking it himself. Oliver Queen, playboy, needed a buzz surrounding him when he returned home. It was crucial to his new (or old, depending on how he looked at it) image.

He sighed heavily before turning and starting the shower. It was the first running water that he had encountered. The Yoon family hadn’t had it, and the island certainly hadn’t, either. 

The bathroom was filled with steam when Oliver eventually stepped into the shower. He had made the shower hot, mostly because he hadn’t had hot water in years and partially because he wanted to feel the sting to make sure that the last two days had been real - that this wasn’t a dream, and he wasn’t still on the island. The rushing water left his skin tingling.

He used more soap, shampoo, and conditioner (his hair was longer than Thea’s had been when he’d last seen her, and that was what people with long hair did, wasn’t it?) than he needed. When he was done, he did it all over again.

It was dark outside when he left the shower. He felt unnatural, and he realized that it was because he was so clean. He’d grown so used to being dirty that it was his normal. Another thing he had to readjust to.

He only had the hand-me-down clothes that the Yoons had given him to wear, so he reluctantly dressed in them again. He wanted to buy new clothes, ones that fit properly and had a price tag larger than most people’s cars. For whatever reason, he believed that they would help him slip back into the character that he so desperately needed to become. He’d been wavering between Island Oliver and Oliver Queen too much in his interactions with the people in the embassy, and it was wearing him out. He couldn’t have a “changed man” reputation precede him to Starling City. It would set his mission back.

Unfortunately, because he hadn’t gotten in touch with anyone, he was penniless. The clothes would have to wait.

He had been able to take anything that he needed (if he could find it) on the island. Monetary transactions had become a joke. He hadn’t ever had to worry about money, sure, but on the island he hadn’t even needed to consider it. Now, he realized how absolutely reliant he was on it. He would need to contact his family so that he could have the funds to get his passport, his plane ticket, even a haircut. It was a sobering thought. 

The room, with its comforts and stale air, suddenly became stifling. He grabbed his hood and put it on. He grabbed the badge that Shipley had assured him would grant him access into and out of the embassy, pocketed it, and drew the hood over his head. He craved the anonymity it would give him.

Minutes later, he wandered aimlessly through the streets of Beijing. He didn’t have any money, so he couldn’t do anything of significance, but it was a relief to be back underneath the open sky. The air wasn’t quite right in his lungs - filled with smog and smoke and other industrial fumes - but it was still fresher than what it had been in his room, and he breathed it almost greedily.

He had just made the decision to go back to his room and knock out a few rounds of pushups and situps when he heard a woman scream. He reacted on instinct, running towards the sound and down an alleyway. Just ahead, two men surrounded a small, young woman. One had his hands on her purse, but she was clutching it tightly, refusing to give it up.

He knew that he shouldn’t get involved, but she was young and reminded him of Shado when he had first met her, so he frowned and drew the hood lower over his face. He knew that they would remember a foreigner’s face, so he would hide it. No one could know his secret.

He approached slowly, lowering his voice and speaking in Mandarin, “Leave her alone.”

The two men looked at him briefly, laughed, and then turned their attention back to the girl. 

One replied, “This doesn’t concern you. Keep walking.”

The other approached her, grabbing at her shirt and slapping her across her face, and Oliver snapped.

He ran forwards, grabbing the man’s hand and forcing him to release the woman. She screamed and backed against the wall, collapsing onto the ground in terror. The other was already moving towards Oliver, so he released the first assailant’s hand and leveled them with a glare, “Last chance. Run.”

The one closest to him pulled out a gun and the other twirled a switchblade between his fingers. They lunged at the same time, but they were undisciplined and he had fought stronger, more capable men. He dodged the first jab of the blade, grabbed onto the hand that held it and redirected it so that it lodged itself into the heart of the attacker with the gun. The gun went off, but not before Oliver had shielded himself with the man holding the knife’s body. 

It was over in seconds. The men were both dead at his feet. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to calm himself. 

Two days off of the island, two men dead. 

He wondered, briefly, how many more men he would kill in his lifetime before he opened his eyes. He turned towards the woman and extended a hand towards her, intending to help her up, “Are you ok?”

She stared at him for a second before screaming a loud, piercing scream. She found her feet and ran away from him, down the alley and out of sight, casting one last, scared glance back at him to make sure that he wasn’t following her. He didn’t try to stop her. There was no reason.

Her reaction was why he would have to hide his true self. He was dangerous. He was a killer. And Oliver Queen could be neither of those things.

He clenched his fists tightly, the nails digging into his palms, and walked back towards the embassy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse any typos or non-sensical words. I'm not beta'ing these, and I'm pretty much just posting them as I finish them!
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kind words!


	3. Day Three: Billionaire Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a lot of fun exploring this stage of Oliver's life. It feels GREAT to finally get it out of my head, too. Oliver's homecoming has always bothered me. He'd been missing for years, and they didn't even meet him when he got off the plane? Why didn't Thea go to the hospital with Moira? I'm hoping to solve those things in this and the next two chapters as he continues to build his persona.
> 
> Thank you for all of the sweet messages and comments!

It was 6am when Oliver and Shipley met back in the man’s office. Shipley had attempted to make some small talk while he set up the call, and Oliver had tried his best to make conversation, but he was rusty, and his attempts fell flat on his own ears. He would do better from now on. He had to.

On the fourth ring, Moira Queen’s curt voice answered, “ _Hello?_ ”

Oliver hesitated for a moment. He had dreamed of contact with Starling City for years, and now, just like that, he was speaking to his mom. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He had a job to do.

“Mom?”

_“Who is this?”_ Moira’s voice snapped. “ _This is a private number._ ”

“Mom, it’s me,” his voice cracked slightly. “It’s Oliver.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath and her harsh voice responded, “ _If this is some kind of a joke, it’s not funny._ ”

His free arm’s elbow dropped onto his knee, and he stared, transfixed at a discolored spot on the carpet between his feet. Uncomfortable of Shipley’s proximity to him, he sighed, “When I was three, I was playing with your makeup, even though you had told me not to, and I got lipstick all over the bathroom, including your dress for the gala you and dad were supposed to go to that night. I thought you were going to be furious… you probably should have been. But you laughed at the mess, told me I didn’t have a future as a makeup artist, got another dress out of the closet, gave me a bath and put me to bed. My face was tinged pink for two days.”

He was hyper-aware of the fact that Shipley was listening intently. It was dangerous to let people know too much about him, especially strangers. He had learned that on the island. But it was unavoidable. His trump card to convince his mother was always to tell her a slice of his history, something so insignificant that no one else would know it, but so memorable to the two of them that she couldn’t deny the evidence she was faced with.

He heard her gasp into the phone, her voice watery, “ _Oh my god! Oliver?_ ”

“Hi, Mom,” he tried to soften his voice more. He didn’t know if he succeeded. He wasn’t used to this, not sure if he was even doing it right. Could he be a loving son? He loved her, of course he did. But how would he be able to express that ever again when he caused majority of the people he loved to be hurt or killed? When caring for someone on the island had always turned into a liability?

“ _Oh my god! What… where… how... is this possible?_ ”

He calmly explained the situation to her, even though he knew that it sounded like a fairy tale. The words sounded unbelievable even to him, and he had lived through it.

As always, though, his mother was a pillar of strength. If she doubted or found any part of his story upsetting, she didn't let it show. He knew her, even after all these years. She was a remarkably stoic woman, and Oliver only now realized that it was a defense mechanism, probably learned in response to years of scrutiny and social pressures. He had been naive when was was younger to think that he was the only Queen affected by their status in the community.

He would take lessons from her stoicism to help maintain his own.

“ _I want to speak to this Mr. Shipley,_ ’” she said briskly. Composed, as if her entire world hadn’t just been turned upside down.

“Just a second,” he had to bite back a smile. He didn’t want to be Shipley right now. He started to pull the phone away when her voice stopped him.

“ _Wait. Oliver?_ ”

“Yes?”

“ _Your father…?_ ” Her voice trailed off.

“I was the only one who made it off the boat, Mom. I’m so sorry.” A lump formed in his throat. It was something he had decided on the island. He could be the only survivor. Anything else and there would be too many questions.

“ _I hoped for you to come back to me every single night._ ” A rare admission of her private thoughts, and he could hear the unspoken words in her voice. She had hoped for them both to come back, not just him.

The lump grew even larger in Oliver’s throat, and he had to force himself to hand the phone to Shipley. He turned slightly away from him, fighting down the tears that were threatening to come to his eyes. He hadn’t expected how much he would want to keep hearing her voice once he had heard it. Would he have that same reaction to all of his loved ones? To Thea? Tommy? Laurel?

Surely he would. But he needed to learn how to control it. Attachments would be a weakness that he couldn’t afford. If he was going to do what he planned on doing, he would need to be alone with the illusion of connection.

\----

Moira Queen was nothing if not efficient. Within an hour, almost the entire embassy had been called into work early and mobilized into helping Oliver Queen, Starling City’s prince, get back onto US soil. Halfway across the world, senators were being called and working later than normal in exchange for what he could only assume would be classified as a hefty political contribution. The senators would help him get into the country without a passport. He couldn’t be issued one without being legally resurrected, and that couldn’t be done unless he was on US soil. A catch-22 that money bought him out of easily.

The things in his small embassy bedroom had been moved to the penthouse suite of the nicest hotel in Beijing, a driver and security hired, a personal shopper arranged, and a barber scheduled. An account had been set up in his name with $100,000 (something Moira had labelled “discretionary” spending money for him to have before he got to reinstated to the family accounts and trusts), and one of the corporate jets was flying to Beijing from Starling City to take him home.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised that he now found himself in the hotel suite with a doctor. But, he was anyways. For being so incredibly in control for so long, his mother had undermined that almost immediately.

At first, he had been angry. Then, he found himself relaxing because of his anger. He wasn’t worried about survival. He wasn’t worried about food. He wasn’t worried about supplies. He was worried about his mother’s overbearing attitude.

That fact alone made him… happy.

“I just need a blood sample, and then you’re good to go.”

Oliver nodded, holding his arm out.

The doctor stuck the needle in his arm and began drawing vials worth of blood, “This is to test for any diseases before you head home. I believe that you’ll need to undergo some more extensive testing once you’re back in Starling City, at Mrs. Queen’s request.”

He nodded again. He didn’t want the medical tests. He was healthy, more fit than he’d ever been in his life, and it would only expose the wounds and new tattoos that scattered his body. Refusing, though, would throw suspicion on his castaway story. So he would have to go along with it.

That, and arguing with his mom wasn’t necessarily at the top of his list of things to do right when he got home.

“Ok. I’ll get a rush on these so that we can get you on that plane tomorrow, Mr. Queen,” the doctor gave him a wide grin.

Oliver smiled back, and he was happy that this time the smile came more naturally. He was getting better at playing his role.

As the doctor was leaving, a small, young Chinese woman knocked and entered the room with large bag.

She gave Oliver a wide smile, and he greeted her with a handshake. She giggled, returning it, “Hello, Mr. Queen, it is very nice to meet you. I’m Mei.”

Her english wasn’t the best, and he wanted badly to switch to Mandarin and ease the conversation, but he knew that he couldn’t. He wasn’t supposed to speak Mandarin.

“Hi, Mei,” he winked at her. He needed to flex his flirting muscles, see if he still had it in him. Even if his heart wasn’t into it, he needed to perfect making it look real. He was a playboy, and that reputation would help him immensely when he needed to account for nighttime absences in the future.

She blushed slightly, but her grin fell when she took in his appearance entirely, “Oh, that is no good. That is no good.”

He frowned, “What?”

“Hair,” she snapped, moving past him and into his bedroom. He raised an eyebrow in amusement before following after her.

She was already in his bathroom and unpacking her supplies when he entered. She pointed to the chair that was underneath the built-in vanity, “Sit. Now.”

He crossed the bathroom and sat. She turned to him, “Shirt off? That way, hair won’t be all over your clothes.”

“That’s ok,” he smiled at her again, “I’m not very attached to this shirt.”

That, and he didn’t want her to see his scars and tattoos. The less people that saw them, the better. He could see a flash of disappointment in her eyes, and he was secretly glad. He was definitely having an effect on her.

She washed his hair with care, but stopped halfway through with a ‘tut’ noise coming from her throat. She picked her way over the scalp with a comb, “You have bugs. We should shave it.”

“Bald?” He balked. Of course he had lice on top of everything else.

“No. I can buzz it,” her lips quirked. “I have a home remedy. It will get rid of them immediately. China’s best kept secret. But it’s still better to cut it short for the treatment.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

She finished washing his hair, pulled it into a ponytail, and took scissors off of the counter. He was proud that he didn’t visibly tense or clench his fists when she approached his head with them. He had been programmed to do the opposite. Anyone approaching him with a blade, and he should defend himself. But he fought the urge. He wanted to look at himself in the mirror and make sure that he at least looked relaxed, but he was facing away from it. He was sure that she’d done that strategically for dramatic effect.

One snip and the ponytail fell to the tile. His hair fell around his face now, brushing at his jawbone the way it had about a year into his time on the island. He wasn’t that person anymore, either. So much had changed in the first year on the island, but even more had changed in the next four.

She chunked away at his hair, taking uneven pieces from all over his head. He opened his mouth to protest, but she stopped him, “We buzz it. Relax.”

His mouth snapped shut. Seconds later, she was moving a buzzer over his head with much more care. It fell in earnest now, sending pieces down his shirt. He knew that they would itch normally, but he’d learned to ignore nuisances like that. If he hadn’t, he never would have gotten any sleep on the island.

His head felt lighter, and there was a draft on his neck. She turned the buzzer off and surveyed him with approving eyes, “Done.”

She removed a jar from the bag and scooped out a heaping blob of yellow paste. She had already started spreading it onto his head when she explained, “For the bugs. It sits while I shave the beard, and then we wash it out. No more bugs.”

She snipped and snipped at the beard, pieces falling over his lap. She paused, “Do you want it all off?”

“Yes,” he nodded. A clean start for a billionaire playboy. It was how Starling City would remember him.

She nodded, and once again he had to calm himself while she shaved him with a straight razor. This was much more taxing. Each swipe at his neck was its own struggle. Mercifully, she was sure and quick, and it was over before he could really become agitated.

She rinsed his hair quickly and then toweled off his head, swiping the towel along his shoulders to get rid of some of the clippings. She looked at him approvingly, “All done. You look very handsome, and I need to get going to my next appointment.”

She was already packing up and leaving the bathroom. Maybe he wasn’t as good as flirting as he had thought. Women around him normally came up with excuses to stay, not leave. He followed after her, resisting the urge to look into the mirror, and walked her to the door of his suite. He gave her a small smile and a large tip, opening the door for her, “Thank you, Mei.”

His face was cold without the beard.

She blushed slightly again, “You are very welcome, Mr. Queen. If you’re ever in China again and need a haircut, here’s my card. Call me anytime.”

She passed him her card, and the double meaning of the statement wasn’t lost on him. No, apparently his flirting was effective. He needed to figure this out better. He winked, “I absolutely will.”

When the door closed behind her, he turned towards the mirror in the entry hall and finally looked at himself. He didn’t look wild anymore. In fact, he looked like his old self. Aside from the buzzed cut, he looked identical if you didn’t know him well enough (and he was the only one who knew himself well enough at this point, anyways).

To him, his eyes were too hard and closed off and his jaw too tight. He didn’t identify with his reflection anymore. It was too unfamiliar.

Suddenly, it bothered him that he looked so much like he had before the island. He had changed and he didn’t want people to know just how much, but he didn’t want them to think that he was the exact same boy, either. He had grown. He had changed. He wasn’t 22 anymore.

Tomorrow, he wouldn’t shave. He would keep some facial hair - just a hint of a beard - so that he could remind both himself and others of the changes that he had gone through. A small but potent symbol of the man he’d become on the island.

The hair he liked. He’d keep the hair.

\----

The day had wasted away by the time his personal shopper left. He had a month’s worth of designer clothes tucked away in the closet, new luggage, sunglasses, and a variety of designer shoes to choose from. He had almost argued against it. He would be home in two days. He didn’t need those clothes when he knew that his mom had probably already hired a tailor to outfit him with a complete wardrobe. But then he realized that he was getting ahead of himself. Who was to say that his plane would actually make it to Starling City once it left Beijing? He thought that he had learned better than to make assumptions like that.

If there was a plane crash and he survived, he would be very thankful for the extra baggage. Assuming it survived the crash as well.

His dinner was delivered to his room, and he sat alone in front of it. He had a silent face off with the food. He ate the vegetables slowly and turned his sights on the small roll and even smaller piece of steak.

He ate them both slowly, taking nibbles instead of bites over the course of an hour. Eventually, both were finished. He didn’t feel sick. He craved more steak, but he denied it. He knew that any more and his body would probably reject it. Slow reintroductions were going to be the only way.

He was uncharacteristically exhausted after finishing, so he entered the bedroom and jumped greedily into the huge, plush bed that faced him. He’d missed beds and high thread counts and excessive amounts of pillows to get absolutely lost in.

To his frustration, he couldn’t get comfortable. Everything was too soft, too unnatural feeling. He tossed and turned, and no matter how tired he felt, he couldn’t sleep. The air conditioning was stifling, the air too dry. The room was too silent, and he craved the ambient noise of the island.

With a huge, exaggerated sigh, he grabbed a pillow and opened the doors to the large balcony that extended from his room and inhaled deeply when the wind whipped at his hair.

He laid down on the concrete, placed the pillow under his head, and closed his eyes. A minute later, he pushed the pillow aside. It was too soft still. He’d ease back into beds and pillows eventually.

Laying on his side, he slowly fell asleep. The nightmares found him later in the night.


	4. Days 4 & 5: Unfinished Business & Going Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I combined days 4 & 5 because, well, if we're being honest, I'm anxious to get to some Olicity. Still trying to justify Thea/Moira's reactions and delays in getting to Oliver, and this is my sort of justification of their actions in the pilot.
> 
> Thank you for everything, and I am SO sorry this took so long! Excuse any errors/typos. I haven't gone over it like I normally do.

**Day 4**

Oliver woke up with the sun. His heart was racing, and his forehead was drenched in sweat. He jumped to his feet, surveying the area and remembering his surroundings. It was just a nightmare. They’d woken him up throughout the night, raking his nerves.

He tried to calm himself by doing alternating sets of pushups and pull ups until his arms, shoulders and back screamed with exhaustion. He needed to keep in shape. His fingers itched to shoot some arrows, but it wouldn’t be possible. Arrow holes in the walls of a penthouse suite screamed suspicious.

In frustration, he dropped to the floor and did sit ups until he was panting in exhaustion.

It was his fourth day in China, and he was beginning to feel just as far from home as he had on the island.

He ordered room service and showered quickly. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, but didn’t study it too closely. He was glad, though, to see his stubble growing in around his face. He dressed in jeans and a black pullover sweater, relishing the feeling of the soft material against his arms.

He still wasn’t used to the hot water, and he was even less used to the ease of obtaining food. The room service tray was already waiting when he left the bathroom: two pieces of toast, two slices of bacon, two eggs and an orange. His mouth watered instantly, and his stomach growled. His appetite was coming back full-force, erasing the years he had spent training his stomach to expect no food at all. He should have ordered more bacon.

He ate the meal faster than last night, but it sat better, and he definitely thought that he was getting better at handling his food. But, he still wouldn’t attempt ice cream. Not yet, no matter how badly he was dying to eat it.

It was still early in the day, and he knew that his security detail would be light. He’d have one, maybe two guards to slip past. He took his hood from its hiding place under the hotel bed, tucked it into his back pocket as best as possible, put a jacket on to cover the rest of his jeans, and left the room.

He greeted the guard outside his room with a smile, “Just stretching my legs. I won’t be leaving the building.”

The man started to come with him, but Oliver stopped him, “I’ve been getting some calls to my room from local women. I think it may have leaked that I’m staying here, and they’re all pretty anxious to come visit me. Stay here and make sure that no one gets in.”

Be in command. Don’t ask permission. It wasn’t a lesson he’d learned on the island, it was something that he had learned as a child when dealing with his mom’s extra security precautions or getting around his dad’s secretaries and other QC employees.

The guard hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, “Yes, Mr. Queen.”

He gave the man an easy smile and then flashed him a quick, mocking salute, “See ya in a few.”

He walked straight out of the hotel without any more distractions. He stopped people and asked a maze of questions: ‘Where is the closest market?’ ‘Who is your supplier?’ ‘How pliable is this?’ ‘Who is the fastest?’ ‘Who is the best?’ ‘How available is this product?’ ‘Which do you recommend between this and this for utility?’ ‘Who would you trust with this?’

He eventually found himself on the outskirts of Beijing, still well before mid-morning, knocking on the well-worn door of a run down house with a bundle of freshly bought packages under his arm.

\----

When he got back to the hotel, he gave the disgruntled guard an easy smile, but ignored the man’s admonishment and went back into his suite. He showered again, both wanting to wash away the early morning Beijing smog and wanting to feel the hot water against his skin. Now that he was clean, he couldn't get enough of it. When he was finished, he selected a navy suit from his closet and dressed, feeling more like Oliver Queen than he had in years.

He’d been right. The clothes were vital to getting into the right headspace. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he was past the hardest part of adjusting, externally, to his new role. He had his head right, and he could be the man that Starling City was expecting. He would still be touch-and-go with his family and friends, but he could adapt more easily now. Public perception was more than half the battle.

His entrance to the embassy was completely different this time. Shipley was waiting for him in the lobby when he entered, and he rushed forward, shaking Oliver’s hand comically fast. Oliver gave him an easy smile, “Mr. Shipley.”

“Mr. Queen,” Shipley practically squeaked, “I’m so sorry about the confusion the last few days. I’m so sorry and so embarrassed that I didn’t recognize you the other day…”

“I’m not sure I would have recognized myself,” he winked.

“I’m happy to say that we got all of your documents faxed over to us this morning. We’ve never had anything come through this quickly…”

“You’ve spoken to my mother.”

Shipley laughed, “Good point. Let’s head back to my office, and we’ll get everything situated.”

It only took a few minutes. He signed some very official looking papers, had his picture taken, and was given a packet that would allow him entry to the United States.

Shipley cleared his throat, “Your mother asked me to see if you wouldn’t mind giving her a call. She said that she couldn’t get through to your room and had left a few messages with the front desk.”

Oliver frowned slightly. He’d unplugged the phone because he hadn’t liked the small light blinking in his peripherals. It had him constantly on edge, and the red light looked far too much like a gun’s laser sight for him to be comfortable with it. In fact, he hadn’t really used anything related to technology since he’d been back. It all felt too foreign. He’d also ignored the hotel desk when they’d tried to stop him, but he’d only done that because he was Oliver Queen, that type of behavior was expected, and he was anxious to get his business at the embassy completed.

Oliver reached for the phone, but Shipley stopped him, “Actually, she uh… she wanted to see if you would video call her? We don’t have cameras on the embassy computers, but you can use my phone. If you want.”

“Sure,” he said, his voice not betraying how hesitant he felt. Video phones? His mind was spinning, “That would be great.”

Shipley passed his phone - a sleek, new iPhone - to Oliver and stood, “I’ll let you have some privacy.”

He shoved his pride aside. His desire to see his mom far outweighed his embarrassment, “Five years ago, these things did not make video calls.”

Shipley stopped short, an embarrassed smile crossing his face, “I’m so sorry. I keep forgetting…”

After Oliver had dialed the number, Shipley pressed the appropriate buttons and left. Oliver was staring at himself, on the screen, as the phone rang. His head was swimming again. Years of being cut off, and now he could see his mom through a phone, even though he was halfway across the world.

The screen flickered for a moment, and then she was there. He froze, soaking in her image. She looked the same as he remembered her, except her hair was slightly shorter. He couldn’t stop staring, unable to say anything.

“Oh, Oliver,” Moira smiled, her voice thick with tears.

He still couldn’t find words to respond.

“I still can’t believe it’s you,” she choked out. “How are you? Are you ok?”

A tear fell onto her cheek, and it broke him out of his trance with a jolt.

“Don’t cry, Mom. I’m ok.” His voice was scratchy and detached. Five years of waiting, and he had no idea what to say to her. He felt like a stranger. He harbored too many secrets and too many regrets that she could never know about. Why had he ever thought this was going to be easy?

She wiped the tear away, “Your sister--”

But he didn’t hear the rest of her sentence. All he could hear was the pounding in his ears as his heart started to race. Thea. He had thought of her every day, and he couldn’t wait to see her.

Thea was the future of the Queen family. His mission was insane, suicidal, and would almost certainly lead to him death or incarceration. He had set a bad example for her before he’d gone missing, and he was determined to do better for her this time around. She was only 12 when he’d left. How much had she changed? Had she risen above his shit and stood taller than Oliver ever had?

Why hadn’t he heard about her yet? Suddenly, he was filled with anxiety. He knew how easy life was lost. Had something happened when he was gone?

He cut off whatever she had been saying, “Where is Thea?”

She gave him an admonishing half-smile, “I was just saying that your sister went on a trip with a few friends to celebrate her senior year, but she’ll be back the day after tomorrow, a few hours after you land. I haven’t told her about you yet. Your death… I mean, your disappearance…” She trailed off, and his heart seized at the look in his mother’s eyes, “It was hard on all of us.”

“I’m sorry,” were the only words that he could manage.

She looked at him in surprise, “You’ve given us everything by surviving. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

But he would never stop feeling guilty. He knew that the boat crash wasn’t his fault, but he was the reason that Robert Queen had shot himself on a life raft. He was the reason that the Lance family had lost a daughter. And any fallout or grief that Moira and Thea had experienced because of those two deaths was his fault. He’d caused them pain, and he would certainly cause them more in the future with his mission. How many more times would he fail them as a brother and a son?

“Do you want to see her?” Moira asked excitedly.

“I thought you said she wasn’t there?” His heart was racing again.

“She isn’t, but I have a picture. Hold on.” She set the phone down, and he could hear her grab something.

In a flash, Thea’s still face was smiling at him through the phone screen. His breath caught in his throat. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was so, so far from it.

“She’s so grown up,” he felt like he was underwater. He knew that he was being short with Moira, but it wasn’t anything that he could stop. He felt so unsure of himself, unsure of what their relationship should be. And, most of all, he was overwhelmed. He'd missed so much of Thea's life.

“She’s a handful,” Moira chuckled, and he could hear the unspoken words. A handful, like he had been. “No boyfriend, though.”

He knew she was teasing him, but he couldn’t bring himself to laugh or smile. A thought struck him, “Isn’t it a school week?”

Moira shrugged, a splash of guilt on her features, “I have had a hard time telling her no after…”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

She held up a hand, “Please stop apologizing to me. I haven’t been as happy as I am now in five years. You have nothing to apologize for, and I won’t say it again.”

He knew better than to argue with that tone.

There was a moment of silence. He couldn't stop studying her features, soaking up everything he could possibly see of her. Five years, and he hadn't forgotten her face, but he had missed it. He'd missed her. He'd missed all of them.

She cleared her throat, giving him a piercing gaze, “Can you tell me anything about the last five years? The crash?”

She could tell that he had changed. He wasn’t doing a good job of hiding it. He opened his mouth, but shut it quickly. He could see the hope in his eyes, and again he felt guilty for having to let her down, “I’m not ready.”

She smiled lightly at him, but he could tell that she was disappointed. “I’m here for you, whenever you are.”

He nodded even though he would never be able to open up to her about it. He would never be able to tell the truth to anyone. It was too hard, and there would be too many consequences.

“Did you get all of your documents in order?” She was down to business, now. He knew that she wasn’t done with the sentiment of their reunion or with her questioning, but he was happy for a reprieve from it. He was raging with emotions that he was trying desperately to contain.

He nodded and held up the packet.

“Good. The jet will have landed by now. They’re going to refuel, restock, and the crew is going to rest overnight. You should be ready to leave tomorrow afternoon, so you’ll get here early in the morning. I want you to go straight to the hospital so that we can make sure---”

“I’m fine,” Oliver stopped her.

“Please, Oliver,” she pleaded.

The hint of desperation in her voice was enough, “Ok.”

She smiled, “Thank you.”

He surprised himself with his response, “I love you.”

Her smile grew, and he could see her eyes watering again, “I love you, too, Oliver. I never stopped.”

\----

**Day 5**

Before dawn, a knock on his door broke him from his push up regimen. He hadn’t slept at all, couldn’t bring himself to when he knew he was so close to his journey home. He had dismissed his guards with his mother’s blessing, giving him more freedom to come and go, and, most importantly, paving the way for a delivery he hoped would escape notice. He gave the ancient man at the door an envelope thick with thousands of dollars of cash and was handed a large, wooden box with green Chinese lettering in return.

The old man was known for his discretion. Oliver had investigated him enough to know that his secret would never be known. He’d threatened his life, bribed him, and eventually come to a mutual understanding. He had, for a minute, considered killing the man. But his instinct told him that he could be trusted. And he had learned to trust his instinct above all things. Plus, he was the best tailor in the city.

He made sure the door was locked behind him, and opened the box with excited hands. The faint, soft smell of leather escaped the box as it was opened, and he inhaled the scent greedily. He’d planned his disguise in his mind for months now.

He dressed slowly, the material more pliable than he had imagined it would be. It had taken some searching, but he'd eventually found the exact leather in the exact color that he had hoped for. He once again took his hood from its hiding place and donned it before turning to look in the mirror.

Green leather, head to toe, except for Shado’s hood. He’d keep her hood as he kept the dark green colors of the jungle - both as a tribute and a reminder to himself of what he’d lost already, what he could lose in the future. He looked more intimidating than he thought he would, but that was only a positive. With some camouflage over his eyes, he should be unrecognizable if he stuck to the shadows and didn’t get too close to anyone he knew.

Once again, he ignored the itch in his fingers to draw his bow and loose an arrow. Once again, he ignored it.

He reluctantly undressed and placed the pants, hood, and jacket back in the box. He wouldn’t need them again for a while. Oliver Queen couldn’t resurface at the same time as his Alter Ego. Unless something drastic happened, he wouldn’t wear that outfit for a few months. But, at least he had it. Just in case.

The day dragged by painfully slow, and he worked out to pass the hours. He ignored the call of the box and the bow inside of it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone this long without shooting his bow. He missed it.

Finally, he dressed in another suit, packed, and went down to meet his chauffeur. The drive to the airfield was short, and his new clothes fit into two suitcases. He didn’t let the wooden box out of his sight, not even allowing it to be placed into the cargo hold on the jet. Instead, it sat at his feet.

He had the plane to himself, besides the pilots and the two flight attendants. He settled in and had a scotch brought to him.

He stopped breathing when the engines fired up and the plane taxied. When the wheels finally left the runway, he exhaled deeply. His nerves were on fire. Twelve hours, and he would be putting on the performance of his life, for the rest of his life.

His brief encounters with his mom had made him realize that his family would see through his "everything is ok" facade. But he would do his best to eventually convince them. He would hide everything about the island. He had to.

He finished his scotch and ordered another.

He was going home.


End file.
